Tongue in Cheek
by emberglows
Summary: Stanley Pines has a sense of humour that barely manages to get him through everything life throws at him. - - - It was getting harder to rationalize. It was getting harder to sleep. It was getting harder to be called Stanford.


Stan had always prided himself on having a pretty fucking good sense of humour. Sure, it was ironic. Sometimes he hated it for getting him into trouble.

Like now, for instance. Right now, the kids had figured it out. They were standing by that godforsaken inverted triangle he'd hid from the world for decades. They knew. He knew that they knew that he was a liar. All because he'd held onto his life mementos; his goddamn sense of tongue-in-cheek humour that he'd laugh at on nights he was drunk enough to go through the hidden box of newsprint articles and fake IDs in his room. It was times like this where he could kick himself in the ass for that sense of humour.

But, some days… Like at the end of _that_ day, when he was lying alone on a strange couch in a darkened room in a creepy shack that _wasn't his_ , he had taken some comfort in the fact that his sense of humour was still intact. Apparently it was the only thing he had left, then.

Apparently it'd the only thing he had left now, too.

Over ten years. Ten _fucking_ years. And then that… Broth-

 _No_.

Man. That _man_. Had the gall to just burst back into his life again, as if simply returning a missed call from the hour before. Expecting him to just show up at some godforsaken hut in the middle of fucking _Roadkill County, Oregon_ during a snowstorm.

Damn himself for actually doing it. He should have burned that fucking postcard with a stolen lighter, and then thrown the ashes in Rico's face to piss him off. Anything, to piss anyone off, because that's just how Ford makes him feel.

…Made him feel?

"Shit." The wetness on his back alerted him to the fact that his shoulder was bleeding again. It hurt like _hell_. "Fuck you, Ford," he mumbled for probably the thirtieth time that night, as he got up to clean it in the bathroom.

He made a wrong turn and ended up in the kitchen. Damn house. Swearing again, he toppled away, and finally stumbled into the bathroom. Trying not to panic, he stripped off his shirt and peeled away the sloppy bandages there. _Are burns even supposed to bleed?_ He could only think of infections, or higher degree burns, or the fact that this burn wasn't caused naturally. Shakily, he sopped up the blood as best as he could and threw away the now soaked bandages. _I should go to a hospital._

He briefly paused at the thought, then barked out a humourless laugh as he reached for the first aid kit. First, another painkiller from an expired bottle swallowed back dry, then a new strip of bandage. _I don't even know if I have a peso in my_ _pocket_ , he snapped back at his conscience to shut up its naivety, beginning to rewrap his shoulder. _How the fuck will I be able to go to a hospital with no money and no working ID?_ A hiss through clenched teeth was all the only noise he allowed himself to make as he bound his shoulder, tighter than before. Only when his upper arm was starting to feel numb did he tie it off. That would have to do for now. He had soaked it in alcohol earlier (Ford seemed to have quite the stock) and drank a bit – okay, a lot – to numb the pain.

The only damn side effect was that even though the physical pain had abated slightly, his stupid emotions always flared up at the bottom of each bottle.

Shaking his head, he shoved the first aid kit back into the cabinet and left the bathroom, passing a window. _What's with all these fucking triangles anyway,_ he wondered at its shape, as he flicked off the light and stumbled back into the bedroom. _Ford's_ bedroom.

Ford. Stanford. The other Stan.

He'd talked to his ma maybe three months ago. He hadn't asked, but she'd told him anyway that Ford wasn't doing so well: _"He hasn't called in so long, baby, I'm so worried about him. About both of you. I gave him your address."_ It had taken all of his willpower to not hang up then and there. It was Ma, after all. So he exchanged pleasantries as best as he could, promised to call again soon (even though they both knew he wouldn't), and said he'd keep an open mind if something happened.

Maybe that's why he came so quickly to this town, like a dog being whistled back to its master. Because he knew the guy was going crazy, as Ma had put it. Maybe that's why he felt so guilty for Ford dy- … Going missing.

 _Who're you kidding_ , his damn conscience piped up as he slammed the bedroom door behind him. _You would've come anyway. That's who you are._

Feet dragging, he shuffled across the room to the couch and shrieked when electricity crackled on the carpet under his soles. Jumping back, he landed heavily on his side and groaned at the new pain that laced up and down his shoulder at the contact. "Fuck you, Ford," he repeated with venom, blinking back the blurriness in his vision. _Thirty-first time, now_. "Fuck this place." He made his way back to the couch, walking around the carpet this time.

 _I'll deal with it in the morning. I just need some sleep._

But even as he settled down on the couch again and made as if to drift off, he knew it wouldn't happen. He'd end up staring up at that strange wooden splintered ceiling for hours until the snowstorm calmed down and it'd be daytime again.

Stan laughed once. The peal punctured the heavy air like a flare before dying out, and the muffled silence pressed in on him again. He hated that, so laughed again. It was hard to stop this time though; after all, the whole fucking situation was more than kinda funny.

There was that goddamn sense of humour again. Here he was, free from his problems – holed up in the perfect hiding spot in a backwater town no drug lords or conmen would ever find him – and dealing with a whole set of new ones instead.

"I gotta be more careful what I wish for," he guffawed, laughs not stopping for long minutes. He stopped the hysterics abruptly though when he felt hot liquid on his cheeks and groped there, expecting more blood. But it was just tears.

And, just as he predicted, he lay there silently for the rest of the night, watching the ceiling while pathetically clutching a cryptic book and now useless pair of glasses against his chest.

The next morning – well, he wasn't exactly sure it was morning, all he knew was that the storm had calmed down enough to let weak watery sunlight filter through – Stan knew that he had to come up with a plan. Plans were essential in his line of work. Plans with steps, and _lots_ of back-up plans, in case things went south.

 _Maybe I don't need those other fucking Journals_ , he thought fiercely as he dragged himself down into the basement.

He thought that the half a month he spent in that hellhole, each time a little less fiercely since the last, until he was lost and starving.

The town was full of suckers, he'd be giving up a gold mine if he didn't capitalize on this situation.

 _Right?_

It was getting harder to rationalize. It was getting harder to sleep. It was getting harder to be called Stanford.

He found mortgage bills in the living room when he was making this godforsaken place more livable.

He found a brochure in the liquor cabinet, the paper close to crumbling from age and its creases permanent from what must have been decades of lovingly folding it to fit in breast pockets over a heart. It read _Scientiae Schola – West Coast Institute of Technology_ in faded font, the gilded gold ink almost completely chipped away.

He laughed when he paid the bills that night, hiccupping from the alcohol, and laughed harder when he soaked the pamphlet in the cabinet's best bourbon before burning it in the kitchen sink.

 **Step One, half a year later: "I've gotta die."**

 _Ha. There's my sense of humour again._

It was easy enough to fake, his death. He'd seen some people in his line of work do it before, after all. Just an extra skeleton from the shack, a stolen car, his real ID. Rocks on the gas pedal so that it drove off the cliff. Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate. Quick and easy. He came back to the hut the next day, exhausted, and clipped the article out of the morning newspaper, adding it to the box with a chuckle.

 **Step Two, six years later: "Ma's gotta die."**

 _But I don't want her to d- Shut up._

Filbrick was cold in the ground now. He'd heard Ma's message on the machine, but hadn't (couldn't) called back. It hurt him, hearing her like that. She'd been crying about how it was just her alone in New Jersey now, with Stanley dead and Stanford never calling in Oregon and Shermie moving to California for work. She hadn't told Stanley how sorry she'd been for letting her husband kick him out. She was finally free from that marriage, only to have no one left to celebrate with.

He found himself dialing the house number one night when he was too drunk to help it. He'd pulled a voice so she wouldn't recognize him, and had a reading. Her voice was cracking now from old age, but still had the same bite. She told him he'd live a long and happy life, with a good family. He thanked her before hanging up, his old sense of humour making him laugh until he was in hysterics for the rest of the night.

 **Step Three, four years later:** **"Get closer to what I have left."**

 _That's a bad idea. Too many variables. …I don't. Fucking. Care._

Ma was dead. He'd gone to New Jersey to clean out the house, making sure to get there first in order to hide or destroy all the childhood pictures. He took the fez for himself to wear, as a final _fuck you_ to his father. He took a bangle from Ma's jewelry box to keep. Everything else he didn't give a shit about.

Shermie came soon after, but Stan had a hard time correlating the infant he left what seemed like eons ago with the new stranger who stood before him now. They all sat _shiva_ and arranged the funeral together, this new family who thought he was Ford. They sorted out the will, sold the place, and exchanged phone numbers before separating.

He wouldn't mess it up this time, though. He'd stay in touch with this family, help build it so that it wouldn't be as fucked up as his old one. For the first time in years, he put effort into something other than a cold case for a shitty twin who left him alone and abandoned.

The next month he got a wedding invitation from his nephew and even though it was addressed to Stanford, for the first time in what felt like a long time, he smiled.

It was a wonder to him that his new family seemed to be invested in him. In him, a failure? Well, he swore that wouldn't fucking fail this time. Not for something this important.

There was a new set of Pines twins now. He blinked back tears as he held them for the first time, on the day they were born.

"You okay, Stanford?" His brother laughed.

"I'm fine. They're perfect." He whispered back, heart growing two more notches to accommodate them.

 _I will protect you. You will not end up like me. I promise._

He realized that his demons hid in a basement now. He lived over the entrance to hell, giving everything he had for a magnum opus that might not even come to fruition.

Each year he lost some more hope, yet stubbornly kept on with his task. He felt like that story Ford had told him about when they were five and he was on a Greek mythology kick. He was just a poor man pushing a rock up a never-ending hill, only to watch it fall back down and start all over again.

His head shook just as much as his fingers did when he blurrily opened yet another bottle.

Ford had looked terrified years upon years ago. That wide-eyed gaze of fear being swallowed up by pure energy was burned in his mind, kept his own eyes open long into each night. The triangles with their own never-blinking eyes stared down at him when he pressed on into the basement for the millionth time.

 _How much longer will it take until it finally happens?_

Thirty years. _It's taken thirty fucking years._

And the kids might not believe him. Hell, they might hate him.

He wouldn't blame them, though. He hated himself enough already.

 _Ford better fucking come home_. He'd better be alive, waiting at that punched hole in a weak spot. This was the worst gamble he'd ever pulled. This was one he was not allowed to lose. The stakes were too damn high.

But all that mattered now was that the portal was open, and finally – _finally_ – his family was coming home.

 _So._

"Don't touch that button!"

 _Here we go._


End file.
